Working People

 

 

O that warm February morning! The untimely south came to stir up our

absurd paupers' memories, our young distress.

 

Henrika had on a brown and white checked cotton skirt which must have

been worn in the last century, a bonnet with ribbons and a silk scarf. It

was much sadder than any mourning. We were taking a stroll in the

suburbs. The weather was overcast and that wind from the south excited

all the evil odors of the desolate garden and the dried fields.

 

It did not seem to weary my wife as it did me. In a puddle left by the

rains of the preceeding month, on a fairly high path, she called my

attention to some very little fishes.

 

The city with its smoke and its factory noises followed us far out along

the roads. O other world, habituation blessed by sky and shade! The south

brought black miserable memories of my childhood, my summer despairs, the

horrible quantity of strength and of knowledge that fate has always kept

from me. No! we will not spend the summer in this avaricious country

where we shall never be anything but affinanced orphans. I want this

hardened arm to stop dragging _a cherished image._